


White Noise

by serein (koshitsu_kamira)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Best Friends, Broken Engagement, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koshitsu_kamira/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some wishes made upon falling stars do become reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [NCTprompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/NCTprompts) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> The night of the engagement party changes everything for Johnny when his best friend blurts out that he loves him.
> 
> Title taken from White Noise by EXO.

_ Words were merely a jumble of syllables and vowels arranged by a collective effort to make sense, Youngho had thought, sound waves travelling through the air, leaving the slightest impact on the eardrum, then fading away without a single trace; therefore he couldn’t comprehend how the reality he had constructed disintegrated, crumbled easily under the weight of a sentence. Kicking the abandoned champagne bottle down the balcony, he watched the glass explode into amber hued shards, the fragments glinting wet in the street lighting, the high beam, as a sedan, painted tangerine, passed the sidewalk, its passenger resolutely staring ahead, impervious against the sudden crash having disturbed the evening stillness - the dial tone ceased, line disconnected, while the car melted into the indigo sky. _

“You are a coward,” said Ten, the cadence of his speech matching the rhythm the coffee droplets followed, trickling inside a delicate cup, brew cold and subtly fragrant, “Honestly, I pity Taeil, even though I should probably feel sorry for myself,” spoon clattering on the inlaid table top, motifs gleaming opaline, he took a careful sip, tasting the artisan blend, completely disregarding Youngho in the process. Ten had always treasured the finer aspects of life, ready to sequester adequate time so he could relish in the experience, visit new places which promised exclusivity, high quality, whiling away entire days cloistered off in tiny bistros, and French style cafés, contemplating, daydreaming; Youngho once joked he might achieve enlightenment soon if he abode the same routine,  _ “That sounds ideal,” _ replied the younger, wry. Back then, having just met, Youngho still possessed enough indignation to poke fun at unusual habits, mocking the other’s tendency to avoid conflicts, though beyond the playful jest and ridicule, he was charmed, intrigued seeing the vast difference between their personalities, the individual quirks catching his attention, making him wonder whether they could function in a relationship. Undoubtedly, they were mismatched: whereas Youngho preferred rare beef steak, American adjunct lager and waffle fry bites, frequently chose superhero films over scintillating indie movies, liked his coffee fast, piping hot, donuts sopping with sugar glaze; Ten had a refined taste, polished manners befitting an art dealer: diction eloquent, tone pleasant, capable of persuading the finickiest client to spend more on contemporary pieces.

Glance flicking to Youngho’s face, demeanor guarded, impersonal, Ten set the porcelain on the ornate saucer, reclining in the Louis XIV era inspired bergère chair, dainty feet crossed, “Honestly, I have no excuses either,” detached, he waved off the elder’s apology, lackluster reasons, irritation flashing briefly in his dark gaze, “I acted like a fool, believing I could perhaps come between you two.” He laughed afterwards, derisive, and stared at Youngho, expression crestfallen, his facade cracking, hairline fractures rupturing the brave front he wielded, the chinks in his armour revealed; “You are not all that special,” uttered Ten, almost nonchalant, except for the tear tracks streaking his cheeks, hand tracing odd patterns above the upholstery, “I will move on, but so would Taeil, provided you do nothing.” Hiccuping, choking on a sob, he removed the platinum band Youngho had slid on his finger barely a month ago, placing the ring before the other man - the precious metal glimmered ominously, akin to a period, signaling a full stop by the end of a chapter in those contemporary novels Ten put aside, claiming  _ “the plot leads nowhere,” _ eventually abandoning the books to gather dust on his lacquered dresser - “Now leave me alone.”

Dazed, Youngho rose upright, shivering from the cool draft the air conditioner emitted overhead, the quiet whir amplifying thousandfold within his ears, the sharp clack of his boot soles echoing hollow as he walked out the photocell door, joining the afternoon rush clogging the roads, allowing the mass, harried businessmen, students carry him along, swallow his presence.

_ Despite the early hours Youngho had deliberately picked, the Jongno jewelry district was teeming with awed tourists and young couples marveling at the shimmering displays, flocking near the store windows in order to get a better view of the trinkets offered, the multihued baubles showcased on black faux velvet pillows, the glamorous arrangements sparkling under the LED lighting. Normally the crowd wouldn’t have bothered him since he was a professional festival organiser, meaning large, uncontrolled, often very inebriated groups were an occupational hazard he encountered frequently, only today people were thwarting his endeavor of choosing an engagement ring that matched Ten: albeit Youngho was a head taller than the average population, he simply couldn’t assess the models in detail while standing five meters off the exhibits. Taeil, who was generous enough to accompany him, kept a firm grip on the younger’s jacket sleeve, adjusting his gait so they could maneuver through the mob smoothly, “Jonghyun recommended a small boutique in this area,” he remarked, pointing toward a secluded corner, “apparently, they specialize in engravings,” pausing, he poked Youngho hard, eliciting a pained groan, “What do you think?” _

_ Nursing his surely bruised ribs, the other glared at his best friend, flinching when the elder raised his elbow again, threatening, “Alright, let’s try,” he conceded, setting forth in the general direction of the shop, relieved to see the minimalistic interior fairly vacant - holding the entrance open for Taeil, he scanned the shelves hosting graceful crystal flowers, elaborate music boxes. A sales assistant immediately latched onto the older man, ushering him beside the counter, gesturing animatedly as Taeil explained the situation; vaguely overwhelmed, palms sweaty, Youngho felt tempted to leave the establishment, postpone the whole matter indefinitely for the enormity of his action had dawned on him, “Doesn’t Ten like The Wave by Katsushika Hokusai? Maybe featuring an excerpt would look nice,” his friend suggested, interrupting the younger’s thought process. Nodding, distracted, Youngho approached the couple, then glanced at the screen where the staff member had the aforementioned picture magnified, “We can also color the etching according to the reference,” disclosed the woman, proceeding to recite the various substances the jeweler could use, each component differing in terms of longevity, saturation; “I want the absolute best,” he blurted out, interrupting the monologue. Somewhat affronted, the assistant coughed, excusing herself to draft his order and bring the necessary forms, “I haven’t seen you this nervous before,” quipped Taeil, breaking the silence, chuckle light, “Don’t worry, I’m certain Ten will say yes,” he added, patting the younger’s shoulder; remaining mute, Youngho chewed on his lips, anxious, though his posture relaxed considerably, “Thanks,” he told the other, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” His best friend laughed, a little wistful, the edges serrated, “Fortunately, you will never have to find out,” Taeil muttered, smile tinged blue. _

Youngho stepped further inside the office, greeting the employees milling around the department, meanwhile searching for a familiar person who could possibly reveal Taeil’s whereabouts - the older man had dropped off the radar since last Sunday and became virtually unreachable, no matter the means the younger had tried to contact him: his private number, social network accounts were all dead. The distant behaviour was uncharacteristic of the other, causing worry, disquiet fester in the back of Youngho’s mind, fully aware he might have compelled the elder to leave - they didn’t talk after the engagement party, having embraced the implicit understanding that they should forget whatever had transpired, pretend, fake everything was great, peachy till they made the charade reality. Youngho regretted accepting the precarious status quo, recognized he had been grasping at straws whereas the mirage, the house of card toppled in a single moment; now he struggled escaping the numbing equilibrium, a foreboding sense haunting him daylight, whispering time had run out and Taeil  had gotten away already.

“Youngho?” called a mellow tenor from a cubicle near the panoramic windows which lined the entire floor, a slender figure rising upon his arrival, “How are you doing?” queried a grinning Yuta, the Japanese correspondent of the broadcasting station, among the selected individuals Taeil deemed worth befriending, “ _ the rest is too preoccupied with climbing the corporate ladder _ ,” he claimed, disgusted. His best friend despised powermongers, believing greed the bane of human existence: “ _ As far as I’m concerned they can take the promotion and rot for decades stuck in the hierarchy _ ,” hissed Taeil following an ugly dispute at his first workplace, furious, having caught a colleague stealing his project material; naturally, he quit the next day, parting gift an abuse report, citing the misconducts he witnessed. The division shut down shortly afterwards, yet the elder had never gloated regarding his achievements, “ _ Would have happened anyway _ ,” he shrugged, redirecting his focus on the documentary of wormholes and the Schwarzschild metric, apathetic, feathers unruffled - Taeil was terrifyingly efficient at compartmentalizing, figured Youngho later while doing the dishes, mildly disturbed by the fact. The reasons for his apprehension didn’t sink in during that evening, however, facing Yuta in the present forced him to perceive, accept the fears plaguing his consciousness, each revolving around loneliness, abandonment, the worst: losing his closest friend, the oldest confidante encompassing the daydreams, wishes and ambitions that belonged to his younger, naive self.

“I’m looking for Taeil,” Youngho confessed eventually, when the Japanese man finished talking about the excellent fusion restaurant downstairs, “He hasn’t been receiving my calls,” fidgeting, he expected Yuta to reject giving him an answer, but the other seemed perplexed instead of weary or appalled, “Oh, he’s visiting the Canadian branch since Minhyung asked him to tag along. Are you experiencing troubles with the wedding preparations?”

“Not really,” replied Youngho, almost blurting out the truth, “Do you know when he will come back?” he inquired, hoping the desperation wasn’t evident, obvious in his voice; Yuta paused, turning to leaf through the calendar pinned on the wall, “The schedule here says tomorrow morning,” he surmised, tapping on a numbered box, “You can leave him a note, if it’s urgent.”

_ Switching his phone on, Youngho checked the screen, hum satisfied before he yelled toward the elder who was fighting his way up the observatory, “Chop, chop, little Moon,” he bellowed, snickering as the other scowled, grimace visible despite the hundred meter distance separating them, “There’s twelve minutes left, and we don’t want to miss the meteor shower.” The younger slowed his pace nonetheless, allowing Taeil to reach his spot, then grabbed his best friend’s hand so he could hasten their progress, “Remind me to register you for the upcoming marathons,” he said teasingly, intertwining their fingers, snug, “You are awfully out of shape,” Youngho reckoned, snagging the portable gas stove the other man had carried, nudging him affectionately. “And whose fault is that,” grumbled Taeil, kicking the younger half-heartedly, “First, you kidnap me over the holidays,” recounted the elder, tone droll, “secondly, you wouldn’t let me hit the gym on the grounds that you are afraid of being left alone with your cousins,” grouched the other, wheezing at the sight of the steep terrain, “Why do I even tolerate your shit, I should reconsider my life choices.” _

_ Youngho laughed, accustomed to the complaints, the indignant whines, clasping Taeil’s shoulders, pacifying, “I will give you a piggyback ride, okay?” he proposed, grin warm, genuine, having noticed the other’s pleased expression, “You big baby,” dodging the resentful swat, he smirked, amusement peaking, hugging the elder closer against his side, “Just a few more steps.” Annoyed, Taeil sighed theatrically, still, he clinched his arm around Youngho’s waist, squeezing the younger tenderly, “What’s on the agenda tonight?” he asked, flicking a persistent mosquito off the other’s cheek, “Citron tea, ramyun and s’mores,” the younger listed, excited, lifting a plastic bag higher, “Mother sent me the original ingredients, Graham crackers too.” _

_ Taeil huffed, pinching his best friend, evoking a disgruntled yelp, “I can’t believe you wasted a small fortune on international postal service because of your inability to do the weekly grocery shopping,” ignoring Youngho’s exclamation, he continued, “You thanked her properly, I do hope,” to which the younger man nodded promptly - sometimes he forgot the other was terribly old-fashioned, very particular about manners. Raised in a traditional family structure, Taeil represented conventional values wearing traces of Confucianism, granted he adopted different, complementary beliefs while studying abroad at Manhattan School of Music, where he majored in composition, and incidentally, met Youngho during the on-campus concerts: the younger had merely walked up to the DJ counter, professing “your mix is sick.” An eleven day trip to Chicago involving the Navy Pier, a baseball game at Wrigley Field, skateboarding in Lincoln Park, henceforth solidified their budding friendship that didn’t fade after they both began working in South Korea; initially they had also shared a flat since the entrance level paycheck didn’t cover the ridiculous living expenses prevalent downtown. Ultimately, Youngho moved to the suburban neighbourhood, apartment situated near the Gimpo Airport, as his job required frequent travelling within and outside the country borders; “Taeil, I honestly don’t think I can stomach airplane food any longer,” he would lament, adjusting the webcamera amidst their Skype video session, slurping his miso soup noisily, “I’d kill for a portion of grilled beef.” _

_ Taking two steps at once, they arrived at the observatory tower with a few minutes to spare, permitting just enough time to assemble the filming equipment, occupy the best vantage points; “Seo Youngho, quit fixing the DSLR and sit down,” hollered the older man, patting the empty space beside him, “Your inner astrology nerd will cry if you let the Perseids slip,” Taeil warned, amused. The other pouted, sheepish, but took the seat next to his best friend, sliding underneath the fleece blanket, squeal muffled having discovered a falling star arcing through the inky horizon, “Make a wish, quick,” he rambled, knees bouncing uncontrollably, then briefly closed his eyes, concentrating on the request - even though Youngho knew the superstition was childish, wishful thinking, it was a habit he cherished, kept close to his heart. _

_ “I wish the two of us could stick together regardless the hardships we might encounter,” he heard Taeil whisper, gaze locked on the aerial splendor, irises alit with starlight; usually, the younger would have rebuked his friend, “It’s supposed to be a secret!” except the moment seemed curiously fragile, meaningful, therefore Youngho simply repeated the words, pensive, silently watching the skyline burn in the distance. _

“Good evening to our faithful listeners, this is your host, Moon PD speaking,” greeted Taeil, melodious voice flooding the younger’s headphones, timbre rich in spite of the dormant frequency noise disturbing the transmission, “Regarding the previous broadcast, let me apologize for my absence,” a pause, “nevertheless, I trust Jay was an excellent substitute, don’t you agree?” Shuffling the script papers, he took a deep breath and commenced presenting the topic of the current episode, “ _ ellipsism _ , namely that one cannot find out how a story, alternatively history will advance,” revealed Taeil, “please, kindly send us your thoughts, memories on the subject,” - Youngho tuned out the technicalities, drumming his fingers on the car dashboard, following the simplistic tune featured in a commercial. Originally, the radio show, titled Another World, was a pilot venture which details came up in coffee breaks, between editorial meetings, brainstorming sessions; aimed to target university seniors, young adults, pop music connoisseurs respectively, by combining varying constituents of art: literature, photography, architecture, cinematography, dance and obviously, music. The contributing members themselves hadn’t anticipated success, warm reception, treating the project as an outlet of creative energy, a platform where they could experiment freely, tap into the latest trends dominating the industry practices, unaware how a niche in the entertainment market, a separate group, comprising music enthusiasts, had long awaited a similar production. Youngho had appeared on the show a couple occasions, mainly sharing his experience concerning the festivals, the various events his company organized, describing the process of handpicking artists, suitable venues, getting the official paperwork done, “ _ the police officer in charge totally hates our guts _ ,” he commented once, joking - behind the scenes he would help Taeil decide upon concepts, themes while they grabbed dinner.

Spinning the keys around his index finger, absent-minded, Youngho leaned back, eyelids firmly shut, drifting along the poignant melody a listener had recommended, contemplating the past incidents that somehow cumulated into a frigid silence charged with unspoken sentences, buried hurt and swallowed confessions,  _ the lingering scent of Dom Perignon _ ; encompassing, saturating their relationship. Despite a week having passed, he could still feel the light breeze tangling his tresses, see Taeil’s glance reflecting the fireworks overhead, technicolor embers dancing across his pupils, lips bitten red sculpting the most powerful words Youngho had ever comprehended, their weight tangible, devastating; he remembered opening his mouth, making a futile attempt at damage control, rebuild the ruined sandcastle.  _ In a daze, he returned to the reception, beaming smile plastered on his face, laughter saccharine, glass shards raining down the pavement, tinkling; chest numb, aching, he met Ten’s worried gaze and tasted ashes when he professed, “ _ I love you, _ ” a self-reassurance, ignoring the other’s inquiries if there’s anything wrong, “Taeil sends his best regards,” he mentioned, nonchalant, steering his fiance toward the guests, “Let’s mingle, shall we?” _

“Our final song is Bye Bye My Blue sang by Baek Yerin,” chimed the older man, “Thank you for joining us again, and be sure to tune in next week” - powering off the radio, Youngho exited the car, inhale slow, breath clouding his vision, and kept waiting near the broadcasting station entrance, bouncing on his feet, impatient, moreover terribly missing his best friend, even the terrible jokes, puns. Taeil showed up after a while, backpack slung haphazardly over his shoulder, hair tucked underneath a bright red beanie, looking so unbelievably young, vulnerable, Youngho just wanted to pull him close, enfold the other in a tight embrace, his muscles straining already, body tensing, arms mimicking the action; standing watchful, he knew the exact second the elder noticed his silhouette, fond grin involuntary, unintentional.

“Youngho,” uttered his friend, startled, expression guilty, plaintive, gait halting, “I didn’t expect to see you;” inhaling sharply, the younger nodded, acknowledging the fact, then moved forward, stride confident, although he was trembling inside, “I have tickets to Sweden and a hotel reservation in Abisko,” he told the elder, pushing on stubbornly, avoiding the other’s dumbfounded stare, “Perhaps, we could go and observe the Northern Lights together?”

Holding out his hand, heart decorating the sleeve, pulse thudding heavy, loud, Youngho almost missed the shy touch of Taeil’s fingers resting above his palms.


End file.
